by Barry Reese
Flynn and Kaslov were in their disguises, with both men sporting full beards and low-brimmed hats. Under close examination, they might be recognized but Leonid didn’t expect many eyes to be upon them with Libby dressed as she was.
“Something’s not right,” Flynn murmured under his breath as they rounded a corner and faced a small wooden sign welcoming them to Loggieville.
“What do you mean?” Kaslov asked, his eyes scanning the area. He could make out a few people moving through the streets on their daily business but saw no sign of any gunmen.
“Look at it! They’re gone!”
Leonid picked up his pace, entering the city’s environs with purpose. He caught the eye of a stout fellow with red hair and small wire rim glasses. “Excuse me, sir?”
The man stopped in place, a newspaper folded under one arm and a steaming cup of java in his hand. “Eh? What can I do for you?” The man’s eyes widened slightly as he caught sight of Libby, who pulled her coat around herself self-consciously.
“The men who were in this town recently—armed with guns and wearing military-style clothing—what became of them?”
“I don’t have the foggiest what you’re talking about,” the man replied. He stared hard at Leonid for a moment before his face broken into a grin. “Hey! Aren’t you that Russian fella who’s a super genius?”
“I am,” Kaslov replied, looking for any trace of deception in the man’s face. He found none and was forced to come to the conclusion that this fellow honestly knew nothing about Rasputin’s forces.
Flynn, however, was not so easily dissuaded. He gripped the man by the arm and brought his face close enough that the clouds issuing forth from his breath touched the other man’s cheek. “You’re Thomas, right? I met you when I was here before. I saw you the night the men came for the comet. Don’t you remember?”
“I’ve never seen you before in my life,” the man replied, pulling his arm away. “And I certainly think I’d remember men like you’re describing.”
“What about the comet?” Kaslov asked. “Do you remember that?”
With a shake of his head, the man said, “I do not… now if you’ll excuse me, I must make it to the office. Good day, sirs, madam.”
Libby waited until the man was out of earshot before she whispered, “Leo… what’s going on?”
Without answering, Kaslov turned to Flynn. “Can you take us to where the comet landed?”
“Sure! It won’t be hard at all to find that place. The crater was huge.”
* * *
The trio found the crash site with little difficulty, for it had burned a huge path through the local forest en route to its final resting place. There they found a half dozen children playing in and around the crater. Kaslov knelt outside the area and examined the ground, seeing a large number of glass pieces—evidently the landing had been hot enough that it had fused some of the grains of sand.
Libby approached the children, who stopped in their play to watch her. “Hello,” Libby said cheerfully and she was rewarded with a warm smile from the lone girl amongst the kids. “Do any of you know anything about what happened here?”
The girl shrugged her shoulders, pigtails dancing. “No, ma’am. We just found it like this. It’s fun, though!”
Flynn stared at the little girl in mounting horror. He turned to Kaslov. “What the hell’s going on here?”
“Something that makes me think we’re in serious danger,” the Russian replied. “I didn’t tell you everything that our talkative gunman from the train said. He claimed that the man behind these things was a being from my past, one I thought long dead. My father spoke of him often enough to let me know that he was supposedly possessed of unusual abilities—not the least of which was the ability to ensnare the minds of those around him.”
“Care to share his name now?” Flynn asked, angry that he had been kept in the dark.
“He claims he’s Rasputin.”
“The former advisor to the Tsar?”
“One and the same.” Leonid glanced at one of the older boys. “Who is the most powerful man in this town, lad?”
“That’d be the mayor, sir,” the boy replied, staring at Kazlov like he was close to recognizing him. “His name’s Henry O’Shea.”
“Could you take us to him?”
The boy agreed and led them back into town. They found Loggieville to be a peaceful place, quiet and clean. There seemed to be no sign that they had been enslaved only a day or so beforehand. When they reached the mayor’s office, the boy excused himself after taking a small set of coins from Flynn in recognition of his service.
Kaslov was about to knock on the door when it opened unexpectedly, revealing the bearded visage of Henry O’Shea.
“Hello!” the mayor exclaimed, taking them all in with his eyes. “Looking for me, are you?”
“Yes. My friends and I have some questions for you.” Leonid reached up and peeled away his false beard, revealing the face known the world over. “My name is Leonid Kaslov.”
A queer thing happened to the mayor’s face upon hearing that name. A twitch under his right eye made him look half mad. “Mr. Kaslov. This is quite an honor, indeed. Come in, come in!”
The Russian nodded and entered the office, unaware of the dangerous trap waiting to be sprung.
CHAPTER XIII
The Serpent Strikes
Leonid heard the door shut and lock behind him, followed by the confused exclamations of his companions, who were now trapped outside. The Russian turned to face the mayor, whose face was contorted into a mask of pure hatred. His eyes seemed glassy and unfocused, the eyebrows all knotted up. “Mr. O’Shea,” the Russian began, “I don’t think you’re in your right mind.”
“You are his son, aren’t you?” the mayor asked, his voice taking on a strange quality. He sounded almost like another man entirely, as if O’Shea’s voice box was merely a conduit for someone else to speak through. “I can see it in your bearing, in your eyes.”
“Who are you?” Kaslov asked, moving closer to the mayor. “And what have you done with Mr. O’Shea?”
“The little toad is quite safe inside here,” the thing in the mayor’s body reported, tapping the side of O’Shea’s head with a finger. “But he’s sleeping for now… while I put his body to better use.”
Kaslov studied the set of the man’s features and the cadence of his words. He recognized the mannerisms from some dim scrap of his past. “Rasputin,” he hissed, clenching a fist. “What are you up to? How did you survive?”
“The latter question is easy to answer: I didn’t. I sold my soul long ago in exchange for great power… power that allowed me to regenerate. Haven’t you ever wondered how any mind could survive all I did that night, for as long as I did? Poison, beatings, gunshot wounds? The answer lies in the fact that they repeatedly killed me and I repeatedly returned. Your father saw this but refused to believe it. His precious science wouldn’t allow such a fact.”
Leonid allowed the man to move around him, to the other side of the mayor’s desk.
Rasputin continued his taunting. “I killed your father,” he laughed. “Just as I hunted down and killed all the men responsible for ruining my plans. Do you know that he begged for mercy at the end? Like a little girl he cried and cried!”
Leonid refused to be baited by the man’s lies. Instead, he waited for just the right moment and spun into action. He sprang up onto the desk, gambling that Rasputin would be unable to move the mayor’s rotund body with anything approaching speed. The Russian kicked the mayor in the chin, knocking the man’s head back with a sickening snap. Then Kaslov was back on the floor, wrapping the other man up in a half nelson wrestling move. “Listen to me,” he whispered into O’Shea’s ear. “You are in control of your own body. Rasputin is an interloper and is unwanted. Fight him! Take back what is rightfully yours!”
The litany was repeated again and again while O’Shea fought helplessly to free himself, all the while cursing his captor in fluent Ru
ssian. After long moments, Rasputin tired of the game and abandoned the mayor, who sagged limply in the arms of Kaslov.
“Mr. O’Shea?”
“I… am in my right mind again,” the mayor whispered sheepishly. When the Russian allowed him his freedom again, he staggered away, hands held to his head. He jumped in fright as the window to his office suddenly exploded inwards, quickly followed by the form of Flynn, who climbed in through the portal.
“Leo?” Flynn asked, surveying the disordered office and the somewhat disheveled mayor. “What the heck happened? It sounded like a fight!”
“Things are under control,” Kaslov replied, still watching O’Shea. “Mr. Mayor, do you remember anything from the time when Rasputin was controlling you?”
The mayor hesitated, as if digesting the lingering memories was extremely distasteful. “Yes… Yes, I do! I know that he fled with the Black Flame this morning. You only missed him by hours. He’s heading down to the southeastern United States—Atlanta, I think.”
“What is the Black Flame?”
“An alien being… a demon, a creature from outer space? I don’t know! But it’s very powerful and Rasputin wants it to give him power to do something awful.”
“Do you know what he would want in Atlanta?” Kaslov inquired, casting a quick glance towards Flynn who was helping Libby into the room.
“The Flame… part of its power is currently being used by another. Rasputin needs to claim that portion to supplement his own abilities. Once he’s got the full power that the Flame possesses, he’ll be able to enact some kind of spell that he found in…” O’Shea hesitated and then reeled off a lengthy spiel in Latin: “Liber officiorum spirituum, seu Liber dictus Empto. Salomonis, de principibus et regibus daemoniorum.”
Libby made a face, wrinkling her nose. “What did he just say?”
Kaslov translated for her, his keen intellect working. “It means ‘Book of the offices of spirits, or the book of saying of Empto. Solomon concerning the princes and kings of demons.’ It was source manuscript used by Johann Weyer in the preparation of his classic occult work De Praestigiis Daemonum, written in 1587. It contains a list of 68 demons and details on how and when it’s appropriate to summon them. Most of the occultists I’ve met consider it a waste of time because the vast amounts of eldritch energy required to enact even the smallest of the spells is considered too costly. Evidently, Rasputin considers the Flame to be adequate to supply his energy needs.”
“You really think it’s him?” Flynn asked. “I thought you said he was 100% certifiably dead.”
“He’s survived. And he’s possessed of dangerous powers that threaten the world.” Kaslov nodded curtly to O’Shea and moved towards the door.
“Where are you going?” Libby asked, momentarily forgetting her anger about being rejected.
“Atlanta,” the Russian responded with fire in his eyes. “Rasputin must be stopped—at any cost!”
CHAPTER XIV
Truths Revealed
McKenzie sipped his iced tea and leaned back in his chair, propping his feet up on the railing of Max’s front porch. He had a small manila envelope in his lap and had unbuttoned his outer shirt to reveal the sweat-stained white tank top he wore underneath. He was a handsome man who looked far younger than he really was. Curly blond hair and humorous blue eyes made him a heartthrob to many of the ladies in Atlanta, but Max had never known him to take an interest in any of them. Like Max, he’d been forged in the fires of tragedy. His father had been killed by vengeful gangsters, who’d sought to pay back the lawman for his many raids against their kind. McKenzie had sworn to follow in his father’s footsteps, eventually becoming chief of police for the empire city of the south.
“This is damned good tea,” McKenzie said, letting out a long exhalation of air.
Max sat in a rocking chair nearby, Evelyn nursing the baby in a secluded corner of the porch. The Peregrine had returned from his meeting with the Reaper the night before filled with more questions than answers. It was a typically warm day in Atlanta, where even in the midst of winter the Northern born Max Davies was uncomfortable. “You found some information on the people I asked about?” Max inquired, knowing that McKenzie would be content to wax poetic about Nettie’s fine tea for an hour or more if left to his own devices.
“Well, Big Charlie’s well known in the area. The guy’s been accused of pretty much everything you can imagine but nobody—including me—has been able to make any charges stick. The only dip in his stock lately has been the brief period when the Warlike Manchu came to Atlanta. The Oriental was able to oust Charlie from his perch but once you drove that guy out of town, Charlie Morelli reclaimed his old holdings.”
Max felt Evelyn’s eyes upon him and he glanced her way, forcing a smile on his face. She was well aware that there was unfinished business with the man who had once been Max’s Sensei. The Manchu’s plans to revive an ancient evil known as the Abomination had been foiled but the villainous mastermind had escaped into the night and would surely return again—and Max was quite certain that he would not return alone. The Warlike Manchu was seeking out a new pupil, one who would embrace his dark path in a way that max never would have.
As Evelyn returned her attentions to her son, Max looked back to McKenzie. “What about the man who’s became the Reaper? The name I got from his mind was Hank something… and he mentioned a woman. Sally.”
“That’d be Sally Newsome, I’d bet. Well, formerly Newsome, now Morelli.”
“She’s married to Big Charlie?”
“Sure is. She started off as the star act in one of his nightclubs. My sources,” McKenzie tapped the folder in his lap, “say that she used to be involved with one of Charlie’s gunmen—a man by the name of Hank Wilbon.”
“Ah. It begins to fit together,” Max whispered. In his mind’s eye, the images from the Reaper’s mind flickered past like an old movie: the gunshots, the falling dirt, the fear and pain of death. “Charlie had his eye on the same woman and double-crossed Hank somehow. Bumped him off and then moved in to take Sally. That about right?”
“Pretty much. Wilbon’s disappearance back in ’36 didn’t really arouse much suspicion. He’d been a career criminal, after all. But not too long after, Charlie put the moves on Sally and they’ve been married every since.”
Evelyn stepped over to join the men, William lying over one shoulder as she patted his back gently. The baby was cooing softly until he emitted a loud burp. Max’s wife was looking particularly lovely today and McKenzie thought for the thousandth time that Max was a lucky, lucky man. “Are you sure you can trust this… Reaper?” Evelyn asked her husband. “From what I’ve heard, he’s been brutally murdering anyone that crosses his path.”
“The best way to keep him from doing that in the future is to keep him close by,” Max explained. “Besides, I was inside his head… I saw what happened to him. It’s hard not to have sympathy for his cause when I’ve witnessed his murder.”
“My turn to ask a few questions,” McKenzie interrupted. He downed the last of his tea and stared up into the sky. “You mentioned the Black Flame to me on the phone. What have you been able to find out about it? Because I sure as heck haven’t turned up a clue…”
“I checked with my friend Leopold Grace—”
“From that Adventurer’s Club of yours?”
“Yes. The Nova Alliance. He told me that the Black Flame is an elder entity who exists beyond the veil of the stars—”
Evelyn sniffed in amusement. “Leopold is so poetic.”
Ignoring her, Max continued. “They say that the Flame is attracted to powerful dark emotions: vengeance, hatred, lust. Sometimes, when the owner of those emotions possesses enough willpower to summon the Flame—knowingly or not—the Flame will send out a portion of its essence and bond with them. It grants the person extreme abilities but at a terrible cost: the eternal damnation of their soul, which in turn then powers the Flame.”
“And you think that someone empowered by
that is trustworthy?” Evelyn asked in amazement.
Max stood up, facing his wife. For a moment, he let his mind extend outwards, letting it touch hers. Through the bond they shared he whispered I know you’re frightened for me but I think I can save him. The Reaper’s not gone over to the other side, not completely. If I help him, we can take down Charlie and I might be able to redeem his soul.
Evelyn shook her head, knowing it was useless to argue. “One of these days,” she said aloud. “You’re going to make a widow of me.”
“No,” he replied with certainty. “That will never happen.”
CHAPTER XV
The Devils Unite!
Rasputin stood in the center of Big Charlie’s office, casting an imperious glance at the furnishings around him. Having spent time in the most elegant of royal courts, Rasputin could not help but be disgusted by the facade of wealth that he saw.
The Mad Monk stood out in stark contrast to the men surrounding him. Shrouded in black robes, his long beard unkempt, the Russian looked like he’d just crawled forth from the grave… while Charlie and his boys wore crisp suits and held smoking cigarettes in their hands.
“So what you’re telling me,” Charlie began, “Is that this Reaper my boys have been chasing after—and failing to get,” he added, casting an accusing stare at Tony. “Is a ghost? A real live ghost?”
“A ghost, by definition, is not alive,” Rasputin pointed out, sneering as he spoke. Yellowed teeth flashed into view. “But I am telling you the truth. This man who torments your criminal enterprises is a dead spirit given new locomotion by a spectral force known as the Black Flame. I have need of it. Thus, our aims are similar.”
Charlie took a long drag on his smoke and gestured for one of his boys to pour him a glass of whiskey. The fat man sipped the alcohol and hesitated before speaking again. “All this talk of ghosts and spectral forces… it’s not the kind of thing I enjoy. I’m an old-fashioned kind of guy. Prostitution, drugs, killing people—those are things I understand. Things that have to be done so that my family and myself can be comfortable. I don’t like it when people don’t stay dead. This… Reaper… he needs to stay dead. You can do that?”
